Recollection - Moments in Dawn

Morning walks, at the crack of dawn, just me and you and my little sister. We stride through our garden of mango trees drooping with the season’s plump fruits, coconut trees stretching high with the promise of sweet white flesh if the wind sways them just so, into a street empty of neighbors at this fresh hour. Your favorite time of day.

Flip-flops on our feet, each of us clutching one of your weathered, reliable hands. The ground here is muddy and saturated with last night’s downpour, the earthy scent of rain clinging to the air. Before we splash into the areas leaking puddles, our feet are suddenly coasting a foot above the tempting water. We land on the other side on dry ground, amazed at our sudden flight and gazing at each other, then at you in awe.

I laugh as I realize the strength of your hands, your arms, the remarkable distance they can elevate us.

Crammed in my mouth is the lollipop you buy us every morning, without fail, from the street side vendor who probably has our names memorized by now. The taste of sticky orange is one I savor even as I grow sick of it, but this little treat has become a staple of our outings, as has the sun’s warm rays that adamantly shine no matter the state of the weather the day before. I would never tell you even if it became the flavor I despised most.

That contented smile on your worn face is too valuable to give up.

There’s a small decrepit bridge up ahead, just past the road leading back to our home. These structures are meant for crossing, for travelling from one destination to a brand new one, but not for us. At its peak, there is an inscription engraved into the railing. My sister and I think it is quite grand, our best work; our initials intertwined with yours. As we stand here, my eyes track the fish shimmying in the shallow water beneath us, the long-legged bugs native to this part of Bangladesh skimming the surface and darting away. The peaceful aura that emanates around us, it took me a few of these trips to understand, is not the result of this place. It is your presence, in these early hours, your thoughtful, pondering eyes and the soft hum of your voice murmuring prayers.

You tell us to reflect.

And years later those words come back to me, speak in my ear, a persistent noise: reflect.

I think about those coconut trees, grazing the sky with their slender, flapping leaves, always seeming like a height unreachable. When we went to the roof of the house, we could reach our hands out and just barely brush their drooping fronds. But to you it was an effortless feat, accomplished with the ease of an acrobat: tie the climbing belt made of cloth around your waist, one end wrapped around the trunk of the tree, and simply boost up, and up, and up. Reach the top, swing the long handled broomstick, watch in satisfaction the coconuts tumbling down and scattering, picked up by aunts and cousins to be cracked open, squeezed into juice, stripped of inner flesh.

Invincible might be the word to describe it, because I didn’t think you could be anything otherwise.

I sift through my memories a bit longer.

I remember on the few occasions we visited again, we complained of leaving the brisk weather of Canada in exchange for the humid, muggy air of Bangladesh. The third time you installed an air conditioner, and though our morning walks ceased, we took many breaks in that refreshingly chilled room. Not just me and my sister any longer, but all the cousins. Gathered and an ear open to your interjections in our conversations. How we pretended to be the teen grandkids who didn’t care, but what a shared sentiment of pride your approval was.

Though our morning walks ceased, you never forgot the lollipops. The sweet taste soured over time, but I’d made a promise and I kept to it. That smile would not fade, for as long as I could allow it.

Your quiet, your peace, were the comfort I never sought but always received. It was an automatic gesture, hidden beneath the stoic facade, and I know now that it would have been a revelation concealed if not for those morning strolls. Strolls that began at one end, reached the middle of a bridge, and never crossed to the other side.

You told us to reflect, and I wonder if this is the realization I was meant to come to.

When I stare out bus windows now, I often imagine that the leafy tops of birch and aspen and evergreen trees whizzing by are lithe and long. I imagine they are crowded by coconuts, that the bleak winter sky bleeds open with sunlight reminiscent of your warmth. I also wonder.

I wonder if the saccharine taste of mangoes and coconuts will gradually turn unpleasant, or if the flavor of orange lollipop is just the exception, not the rule.

I wonder if in attempting to cherish these memories I’ve only embittered them, if letting go would let them breathe and come back to me untainted, in their original form.

I wonder when I will finally be able to return to that bridge, stand in contemplation at its crest where you left your mark in our etched names, and whisper to myself: reflect, and in that reflection rediscover my lost peace.

I wonder when I will finally take that step, cross that bridge, and see what awaits.